Alice had to admit, the LARPing event was relaxing. It was good exercise, something she hadn’t had in far too long, and while she didn’t enjoy it quite as much as Felicia, the attractive, muscular men were a nice touch. And she got to vent her anger by attacking people with a foam sword. It was nice.

Harold was bored out of his mind. There were a few cult members among the role players, and they were more violent than the rest of the people here, but all that this resulted in was timeouts being called a lot. Harold didn’t partake in the roleplay, he had volunteered for medical work during the games. Still, the most Harold got to treat was the odd broken finger or rash, and none of them were injuries so bad Harold could “accidentally” make them worse. It was infuriating. Weren't there mountain lions or bears out in the country? Couldn't just one of them attack someone? Couldn't anyone just snap and try to kill somebody.

"Hey," Hank remarked, "It's them."

"That guy right there!" the cleric snarled, pointing towards Harold, "Get 'em!"

Harold did not turn to face the adventurers, choosing to push his power into the brass cultists. Eight Brass Champions exploded from the crowd, bellowing challenges as people panicked and fled. Harold moved with the crowd, sprinting towards sturdy log cabins.

“Over here!” Harold called, “We can hide over here!”

“You think a log cabin is going to stop brass champions?” Felicia asked.

“I think it’s better than an open field,” Harold replied, knowing it wouldn’t. The cabin would be peeled open, and the people inside crushed. It would be marvelous.

“I need to film this,” Felicia muttered, pulling out her phone. The adventurers began tearing apart the brass champions, but when Felicia pressed record, the battle shifted. The adventurers shot brief glances at each other and either moved behind cover or let the brass champion stand between them and the camera.

“That’s weird,” Felicia muttered, lowering the camera. When she did, Felicia watched the adventures move out of hiding with confidence, fighting the brass champions with renewed courage.

“What’s weird?” Alice asked.

“I think they know when they’re being recorded,” Felicia said, “Are they magic?”

“Felicia, one of them is shooting fire and lightning from his hands,” Alice answered, “Of course they’re magic.”

“Hold up,” Hank said, “Christopher, did you hear what the armored girl out there said before they attacked?”

“No,” Christopher admitted.

“She said “That guy right there,”” Hank said, “Is everyone in the cabin?”

“I think so,” Helen said, “I don’t see anyone else out there besides the monsters.”

“What do you mean?” Harold asked, “You don’t think they’re here for us, do you?”

“I reckon they’re here for someone,” Hank said, “Don’t rightly know who.”

“It could be anyone of us,” Harold said, “What are you planning?”

“Not much,” Hank admitted, “I just figure they’re here for the White Whosit-”

“Herald,” Christopher corrected.

“Sure,” Hank continued, “Now, if there’s nobody left out there cept the adventurers and the brass champs, whoever they’re after’s in here.”

“How do we know they’re heroes?” Harold demanded, “A group of lunatics wander out of the woods and pick a fight? I don’t think we should trust them.”

“I’ve met them before, they’re good folk,” Hank said.

Harold’s eye twitched.

“They’re the reason why I’m not a hideous mutant,” Hank said.

“Couldn’t they have been here to fight those giants?” Helen asked.

“I don’t think so,” Alice said, “The Brass Champions didn’t show up until those- you called them adventurers? Until they showed up.”

“It was me,” a man said. Harold recognized him as a member of the Cult of Brass, tall and muscular with bloodshot eyes. “I’m the White Herald.”

“Whelp,” Hank said. Hank shot forward and punched the man across the face. Hank was a burly man, his body thick with corded muscle. He had been in a few fights before, and they quickly ended once Hank got involved. Hank’s knuckles slammed into the man’s jaw, his head snapping back at the punch.

The man glared down at Hank until Christopher tackled the man to the ground. The cultist twisted in midair and landed on top of Christopher. Christopher pulled his arms across his face as the cultist pried Christopher’s guard apart effortlessly. Hank landed a kick across the cultist’s head, knocking him off Christopher only to spring back to his feet. The cultist dove for Hank, and the cleric crashed through the ceiling and landed square on the cultist. Heavy plate armor hit muscle and bone, and the cultist's flesh gave way as the cleric's armored bulk flattened him.

The cleric stood up unharmed, and brained Harold with a swing of her hammer, spraying bits of gristle and gore across the LARPers. There was a brief moment of silence before everyone broke into a panicked scream and the cleric rolled her eyes and charged out the door.

Christopher pulled a bag of medical supplies and started passing around disinfectant wipes while Felicia returned to her post at the window.

“H-hey, Alice, look,” Felicia muttered, “The giants are- The ones that are still alive are- they’re melting!”

Felicia saw rings of pearlescent light fly from the wizard’s hand and into one of the few remaining giants. The rings cut through the brass champion and he howled in pain. Felicia saw the magic leave rings of what looked like giant scabs where they moved through the giant, the barbarian had one of the giants in a rear chokehold and was working at ripping his head off, the bard was hurling lightning bolts from from her guitar’s amp, and the rogue, fighter and cleric were busily beating a brass champion into salsa.

“Those people are crazy,” Alice muttered, nudging Felicia, “Go talk to them.”

“What? No!” Felicia protested, “What if they start doing that to me? Why don’t you talk to them, Miss Master’s Degree?”

“I have a master degree, my death would be that much more tragic than yours," Alive explained.

"That's not how it works and you know it!" Felicia hissed.

"Pardon me," Hank said, "I could talk to them."

"You sure?" Christopher asked.

"O' course," Hank answered.

"Be careful," Helen pleaded.

"Don't you worry," Hank said.

Hank sauntered over to the cleric, giving the barbarian a wave as he went.

"'Scuse me, Mrs. The Cleric," Hank said.

"I'm not a Missus," the cleric explained, bits of gore trailing from her hammer as she pulled it back, "You can just call me Cleric. Oh, it's you again."

"Indeed," Hank said, "So, the folk over there was wondering if they could leave."

"Is there anyone else holding them hostage?" the cleric asked, "I don't sense any evil there."

"They were worried that y'ald attack them," Hank explained.

"Actually, I wanted to talk to them," the fighter said.

"About what?" the bard asked.

"About why they're only carrying practice weapons," the fighter said, "Even if nobody had enchanted weapons, they could have won with minimal casualties."

"It's a, ah, a sporting event?" Hank guessed, "Something like that. The foam weapons are to ensure nobody gets hurt."

"That's insane!" the barbarian said, "The entire point of weapons is to ensure someone gets hurt! Fighter, it is our duty to put a stop to this madness. We need to train them."

"We haven't trained adventurers in quite a while," the wizard mused.

“It should be good,” the cleric said, “Being everywhere is such a hassle.”

“And it messes with the space-time continuum,” the wizard said.

“Did we ever find out where our evil timeline clones came from?” the barbarian asked.

“We did not,” the fighter said, “Given how many times we’ve killed them, I don’t think they actually come from anywhere.”

“I think, in all our adventures,” the wizard said, “In all the wild and weird places we’ve been, we’ve actually left multiple places where history splits. It’s likely they don’t have one source.”

“Cocky little paradoxes,” the bard grumbled.

“And the barbarian is right,” the fighter concluded, “We need to teach these people how to hurt people with weapons. You, person-” the fighter pointed to Hank.

“My name’s-” Hank said.

“I’m not going to remember, and I’m not going to care,” the fighter said, “Ask whoever’s in there if they want to become adventurers.”

It was, Hank realized, a chance to reinvent himself. A chance to meet new people, a chance to try new things, a chance to go to new places and make new memories. Not a chance to go back to the way things were, but a chance to make things better.

Alice watched as the adventurers approached the cabin. They had killed a group of Brass Champions. They were probably going to kill her. Well, they might not actually. They had yet to kill that other guy. Alice’s mind turned as she looked at the barbarian. Rippling muscles kept free of any shirt, his huge physique on display. Alice realized two things. The first was that she wanted that freedom, although she would probably keep herself decent and at least wear a tanktop. The second was a strange realization. She had no cosigner on her student loan, a remarkable feat won through immaculate grades. The barbarian had killed Brass Champions with his bare hands, Alice had watched him. If she could somehow gain that kind of power, what could the debt collectors take from her? Bah, wishful thinking either way. There was no way she could just, what, workout until she was as strong as the barbarian?

Felicia watched the wizard. Felicia had an embarrassing time as a teenager, especially in her goth phase. To this day, Alice would tell Felicia how glad she was that Felicia broke out of it, and how much Felicia owed her for breaking her out of it. Felicia could still remember the drawings of her “inner self.” A character dressed in dark grays, mostly bandages that hugged her figure, an eye patch, and a wide brimmed, pointy hat. The character was called “Wytch” and spelled with a “Y” just to be extra pretentious. She had seen the wizard do magic, and hoped he was willing to teach her. Felicia knew she was going to wear the costume she drew back in highschool, and Alice was never going to let her live it down.